


Opacare Ophiomachus

by ishougen



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - All Media Types, Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Genre: M/M, frobismith being affectionate wordy dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:18:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishougen/pseuds/ishougen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This makes Sixsmith smile again, and he hiccups slightly before he replies, “I’ve told you, I’m not learning the oboe, I haven’t got the time.”</p><p>A really quick little ficlet for Briar <3 ilu bb! I hope it's okay! (not beta'd or anything sobs)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opacare Ophiomachus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [metaphoricalrhetorical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/metaphoricalrhetorical/gifts).



The night air is warm and filled with the buzzing half-music of crickets, and Sixsmith thinks to himself that he’s never been more comfortable in his life. The party in the dining room is a faraway memory already, lost to the ages by the time it takes to cross the hall and exit onto the back veranda. There’s nothing out here but the first twinkling stars of dusk and the remnants of his half-drunk champagne in a glass he’s known how to use since the age of six and never really cared for until now – now, because its slender form and bell-like chime reminds him of a certain floppy-haired composer.

Said composer chooses that moment to meander out onto the veranda and plop himself down next to Sixsmith, his shiny shoes reflecting the starlight as they bounce across the whitewashed wood. He’s got his own champagne flute, but though it appears as full as possible Sixsmith knows this is an illusion to mask the fact that Frobisher’s already drunk three glasses of the stuff, and when he speaks there’s a telltale slur behind his words.

“Beautiful night,” he says casually, draping an arm across Sixsmith’s shoulders and giving him a companionable squeeze. “Wonderful party. I do hope I haven’t caused a fuss.”  
Sixsmith can’t repress a bubbly chuckle. “Mother loves you too much to care about fusses, Robert, you know that.”

“Ahh, but one never can tell with women!” The thin man’s voice takes on a conspiratorial tone, as though he’s earned this wisdom through some sort of illicit bargain. “Frightening creatures, they are. One moment they’re entirely infatuated with you and the next –”

“ – they’d like nothing more than to squash you like a bug,” Sixsmith finishes for him with a sigh, waving his hand feebly at a pesky mosquito. “I know, I know.” Absently, he presses the toe of his shoe into the dirt at the bottom of the steps, wondering what might be buried just under the surface there.

Frobisher takes one look at him and shakes his head, though whether it’s out of pity or despair Sixsmith can’t tell. “Really, you must chin up. No self-respecting girl wants to be seen lollygagging around with a gloomily handsome scientist. They much prefer bright young musicians.”

This makes Sixsmith smile again, and he hiccups slightly before he replies, “I’ve told you, I’m not learning the oboe, I haven’t got the time.”

Frobisher waves his hand carelessly before reaching up to ruffle Sixsmith’s hair. The gentle touch of those long, slim fingers sends a shiver down the blonde man’s spine, and he can’t help but turn to look at Frobisher directly. He notices, not for the first time, just how perfect the pianist’s bone structure is. It’s quite striking, really. A scientific marvel. He wonders if Frobisher would perhaps allow him to do some anatomical drawings someday before they head off to Cambridge. By the time he realizes Frobisher is speaking again, he’s already at the end of his monologue.

“...and that’s exactly why you must be quick, my dear Sixsmith! Otherwise they all fly off like butterflies at the first hint of a cold wind.” The musician’s eyes narrow slightly as he catches Sixsmith gazing at him.

There’s a long moment of quiet, filled only by the buzzing crickets and the distant clatter of drinks being poured, and then Sixsmith murmurs, “You look quite striking in the starlight, Robert,” and then the distance between them gradually disappears until there’s no more buzzing, no more clattering, only the soft hesitant warmth of Frobisher’s lips against his own. The hand on his shoulder tightens momentarily before winding itself into his hair, and when they part seconds later Frobisher’s ivory-calloused fingertips are idly twisting the sparse golden strands at the base of Sixsmith’s neck.

It’s quiet still, as though the crickets have all been hushed by some great, minute conductor, and then Frobisher smiles and breathes against Sixsmith’s lips in his bell-like voice.

“As do you, my dear Sixsmith. As do you.”

No one, not even the crickets, can hear the distant ringing of Sixsmith’s heart as it throbs within his breast. Perhaps the sound is muted by the press of Frobisher’s palm as he leans forward for a second kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow do I love Latin titles or what (the alliteration was just too nice okay) also hooray for totally unsubtle symbolism! (as you can tell it's really late here T_T; )


End file.
